Klappentext
To put it bluntly, my life sucked. When I finally got up the courage to divorce my jerk of a husband, never in a million years did I imagine his prick of an attorney would gain him full custody of my daughter. My scant two weekend visits per month killed me. And my ex made it as difficult as possible on me every single time. So imagine my shock when said attorney’s name appeared at the top of the list at the in-patient substance abuse clinic where I worked as a counselor.
My list.
The first thing that occurred was I completely lost my Zen.
Then my blood boiled.
Then his chart flew across the room and slammed into the wall.
How could this possibly be happening?
Karma couldn’t be this cruel.
How in the world could I be an empathetic abuse counselor to the cocky Pearson West, who destroyed my life?
I would rather become an addict myself, or better yet, strangle him first.
Kommentar
Rückblickend betrachtet hätte mich vermutlich schon der Klappentext abschrecken sollen, aber Bücher, in denen (regenerierende) Suchtkranke mitspielen, wecken einfach grundsätzlich mein Interesse. Fehler! Zumindest in diesem Fall.
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